


The Red Tent

by Lady_in_Red



Series: The Lion of Lannister [7]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Post Season 6, show canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-02
Updated: 2016-11-02
Packaged: 2018-08-28 17:20:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8455183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_in_Red/pseuds/Lady_in_Red
Summary: Jaime and Brienne spend one last night together before reaching Winterfell.





	

Less than a day’s ride from Winterfell, a heavy bank of fog rolled in from the north, forcing their party to make camp early. Behind the eerie fog came a snowfall such as Brienne had never seen. The snow fell thickly all evening, leaving the country around them white as a blank page. Inside the tent she shared with Jaime, all was quiet. 

Since moving north, they’d scarcely spoken by day, when the others were listening. Not content to just force them to share a tent, Lord Beric had ordered Jaime chained to Brienne so they had to ride together each day. His men offered them lewd suggestions throughout the day, disappointed by the continuing silence from their tent at night.  

There wasn’t anything to hear. Brienne shuddered at the thought of providing entertainment for these rough men. Jaime would never touch her anyway. Whatever was between them, base lust had no part in it. He had tried to talk to her at first, but Brienne never managed more than a few words in response. As they moved north, she’d grown more and more uneasy. She was bringing Arya Stark back to Winterfell, and returning to Sansa’s side. Her vow to Lady Catelyn—their vow—fulfilled at last.

But Sansa had looked haunted when they parted at the Wall. Arya’s moods were unpredictable, shifting from cold calculation to innocence in a heartbeat. The cold face was the true one, Brienne thought, and it chilled her more than the winter winds sweeping down from the Wall. Lady Catelyn would scarcely recognize her girls. 

Brienne barely recognized herself. When they traveled south, Brienne had been so sure of herself and her purpose. Jaime was a monster, unrepentant, a perversion of knighthood, sworn to four kings but serving only his sister. Now, riding north, she saw the man who’d stolen a sword with every intention of fighting to the death, his rotting hand thumping against his chest as he fought. The man who’d been kicked and beaten and offered horse piss for his troubles. The man who jumped into the bearpit for her. The man who had never offered her anything but the truth, unvarnished and often ugly. The man who rode willingly to Winterfell, where the sins of House Lannister would almost certainly be heaped on his shoulders. 

Brienne knew little of Jon Snow. Bastard son of Lord Eddard and an unknown woman, sired during Robert’s Rebellion, who’d asked to follow his uncle Benjen Stark to the Wall. Ser Davos said Snow had been steward to the old Lord Commander, Jorah Mormont, who’d given the boy his family’s Valyrian sword. But Ser Davos also said that Snow’s men had first elected him Lord Commander and then stabbed him to death. That the Red Woman had raised him from the dead. 

There was something hard and cold in Snow’s eyes that made her believe him. One day away from Winterfell, Brienne had little trouble believing that Snow might execute Jaime simply for being a Lannister. The war had brought too much death, too much blood, and more would be spilled before it was all over. But not tonight. 

Tonight the snow flew thick and fast. With hundreds of leagues of frozen ruin behind them and the certainty of death if Jaime tried to run, Clegane had not chained him to the frozen ground inside the tent. Jaime paced restlessly, watching her hands on Oathkeeper. Valyrian steel required little in the way of care, but Brienne cleaned and sharpened Oathkeeper every night. 

“Is the boy good with a sword?”

Brienne looked up from the rippling blade, startled. Jaime had shown little interest in her squire beyond a brief nod each morning as Pod saddled their horse. “He’s improving. Podrick could scarcely hold a blade when we started.” 

“No, Jon Snow. Nothing worse than a botched execution. At least old Ned could be trusted to kill cleanly.” Jaime’s voice was dry, sardonic, but she saw the question in his eyes. He didn’t fear death, he’d told her that often enough that she believed him, but he’d suffered one maiming, she couldn’t fault him for wishing for a swift death.

She lowered her eyes, hoping he wouldn’t read her uncertainty in them. Snow had worked alongside thieves, rapers, and killers for years, but none were part of the family that destroyed his. If Brienne spoke up for him, she might destroy what little trust she’d built with Sansa. The Blackfish hadn’t been at all convinced. Perhaps Ser Davos would counsel mercy. Despite his loyalty to Stannis, he seemed a good man. “Jon Snow won’t take your life for your father’s crimes.”

“I crippled his brother. I doubt very much the boy will forget that.” 

“He doesn’t know that,” she countered, her face heating. She dropped her oilcloth, shoved Oathkeeper back into its scabbard.

“Why not?” His voice was sharp, his face filled with confusion.

“I did not tell him.” As far as she knew, the only people in the North who knew what he’d done were in this tent. Somehow this confession had never seemed hers to share. 

He swallowed hard, then again, his eyes darting to the sword in her hands. “The boy is dead. I suppose Snow would rather have Theon Greyjoy’s head than mine.”

“Brandon Stark is alive,” Brienne corrected, realizing a moment too late that Jon Snow would not wish to share that knowledge with the Lannisters. “At least he escaped from Theon. He’s gone north of the Wall.”

“Alive? If Cersei had known that she would have ordered me over the Wall in a heartbeat. A crippled man in pursuit of a crippled boy.” His smile was more grimace than grin. 

Brienne remembered the day he’d given her Oathkeeper, her armor, Podrick and a purse of gold. After months of waiting in King’s Landing, she hadn’t questioned why she must leave immediately, nor how long Jaime had been planning her departure. Armor was not crafted in a day. “What did you tell your sister of me? I know you saw us speaking at the wedding.”

“As little as I could, but you drew her notice anyway. She wanted you arrested as a traitor. I refused.” He sighed heavily. “What did she say to you?”

Brienne looked away. “She reminded me of my place.” Carefully chosen words, as close to a lie as her honor would permit.  _ You love him _ , the queen had said. Certain, and with disgust. 

“She was jealous of you.”  

“Jealous?” Brienne shook her head. No one could envy her, the hulking, ugly daughter of a dying minor house. A belief sunk deep into her bones by a thousand slights: casual insults, laughter behind her back and to her face, judgement in its myriad forms. 

“She envied your freedom. You were not sold off in marriage to seal an alliance. You wield a sword, you go where you wish.” Jaime made it sound easy, carefree. She could still hear her father’s anger and disappointment. Brienne was his only remaining child, his heir. How could she choose to fight and die for Renly Baratheon rather than stay and live for her family?

“I was betrothed once.” Tarth was a large island, but much of it was mountainous, its people concentrated in a few towns on the southern end of the island. She had always known she would marry a stranger from the mainland. Her father had chosen Ronnet Connington, a landed knight whose family needed to rebuild their reputation after Jon Connington was exiled by King Aerys. 

“What happened?” 

Brienne risked a glance at Jaime. There was no pity in his gaze, thankfully, but his brow was knit with concern. She’d once believed him incapable of any such feeling. Ronnet not been capable of caring for another person, or perhaps just not her. “He saw me. He was eighteen and I was twelve. He said I looked like a sow in silk. Except a sow would have bigger teats.”

Jaime’s handsome features twisted into a snarl. “Who—”

“I broke his collarbone with my mace, in a melee in Renly’s camp.” That moment was burned into her memory: the satisfying crunch of bone, the spray of blood she’d tasted on her lips, the fear in his eyes. That rush had carried her through her fight with Loras Tyrell. 

“He was a fool.” Jaime dismissed the man with a word. A knight he’d likely never met, a man far beneath his notice, and yet the only one who had stooped low enough to even consider wedding the Maid of Tarth.

Her gaze dropped to her hands, roughened and calloused. “Then all men are fools. As am I.” Connington had deserved every blow for his callousness in humiliating a mere child, but Brienne couldn’t say he was wrong. She’d seen herself in enough mirrors to know that she was not the kind of woman men wanted to marry. There was nothing delicate or feminine about her. Even her voice was deep for a woman. 

“Look at me.” A command, one she was surprised to find herself obeying. “Do you trust me?”

“Yes.” Perhaps Brienne was an even greater fool than she’d thought, because she didn’t think Jaime had ever lied to her. 

She watched as he closed the distance between them, took Oathkeeper from her hands. Jaime turned his attention briefly to the sword, the light dancing across the rippled steel, a slight smile pulling at his lips. Awkwardly he sheathed the sword, set it aside, and came back to sit beside her on the pallet. 

Brienne was almost painfully aware of him, the bare inches between them no protection from the heat of his body, the slightly musky smells of leather and sweat that wafted from his skin. Jaime turned toward her, and she had to look away from his eyes, such a clear, intense blue, and how they looked upon her with affection and sadness. They were always saying goodbye, never free to say more.

He bit his lower lip, drawing her eyes to his mouth, his endearingly crooked teeth. Imperfect, but perfectly Jaime. Would he laugh if she asked him to hold her? 

And then he was leaning close, his nose bumping her cheek, lips finding the corner of her mouth, and his fingers brushed her jaw, turned her face toward his. Her eyes drifted shut, his breath feathered across her skin and then he kissed her. Sparks raced down her spine, warmth spreading through her blood. Jaime’s lips were dry, chapped, and so gentle she could scarcely stand it, the kiss neither carnal nor friendly. 

Why? She wanted to ask and yet couldn’t bear to, returned his kiss awkwardly before he could realize his mistake. Her head was spinning, her heart pounding, all from the sweet pressure of his mouth against hers, his beard lightly scratching her chin. His hand slid around to cup the nape of her neck, his fingers teasing her hair. 

Brienne shivered with pleasure. She’d dreamed about being kissed when she was young, less so as she grew older. The romantic notions she’d learned from stories and songs blew away like fallen leaves as she grew and saw the truth. The world held little sweetness. 

But this moment, this was sweet, dark and delicious and nothing at all like she’d expected. A kiss that built in intensity, his teeth nipping at her lower lip, his tongue teasing hers, a single breath passing back and forth between them until she was lightheaded. Brienne risked resting her hands on his shoulders, lest she fall over, and he hummed in approval. 

She opened her eyes, Jaime’s face so close it was blurred, but his eyes were closed. She needed to know he wasn’t imagining his far-away sister in her place. She moved one hand to his chest, pushed him away. “Jaime.” 

His eyes opened, dark and hazy, no trace of surprise, confusion, or disappointment. Jaime smiled. “Brienne.” His voice was rough, teasing, affectionate.

She leaned toward him, hesitant, their noses bumping briefly, and he chuckled just before her lips met his. He let her lead, unhurried, as she explored with her lips and the tip of her tongue. Jaime opened his mouth, sucked her lower lip into his mouth, and deepened the kiss. His hand slipped around her back, pulling her tightly to him. His kiss grew hungry, deep and searching, pushing her back until they fell back into the pallet together, Jaime’s weight on her. 

Every doubt she’d harbored fell away. This, yes. This was what they’d been ignoring, pretending only history tied them together across leagues and years. 

“I am yours, Brienne. Let me love you.” A whisper against her throat, pressed into her skin with his next kiss. 

Was love what drove him north? Love that kept her awake half the night listening to Jaime breathe beside her, praying for the Crone’s wisdom and the Warrior’s strength? Perhaps she should be ashamed, loving a man so ruthless in defense of those he loved. 

But she wasn’t ashamed. Brienne was on fire. Just for tonight, she cast away house loyalty and heavy vows and just let herself feel as Jaime slowly, reverently peeled away her tunic, her breeches and smallclothes. Her hands shook as she fumbled with his laces, undressed him until they lay tangled together skin to skin. 

Brienne was innocent, not ignorant. She’d seen tavern girls and camp followers plying their trade, lifting their skirts and spilling their breasts into eager hands. She understood what Jaime meant when he asked her to touch him, didn’t flinch when he took her nipple into his mouth. 

The storm was a blessing, keeping the Brotherhood far from their tent, because Brienne was not quiet. She’d known pleasure before, fleeting release found with her own hands. Jaime kissed and caressed her body until she was writhing against him, restless and straining toward something so big she could not stifle the sounds pouring from her lips. Highborn ladies were trained to lie passive and silent in their husband’s bed, enduring their attentions dutifully. Brienne’s septa had been quite clear on that point. Clearly Septa Roelle had taken her vows untouched, because lying still was impossible with Jaime’s golden head between her thighs. 

The wind snatched away Brienne’s cries when she finally broke, her body still shuddering when Jaime prowled above her and slowly, carefully took her maidenhead. She watched his face as he moved above her, his arms beginning to shake with strain, his own voice rising as their joining took him apart piece by piece. When he started babbling her name, endearments, praise, Brienne pulled his face down to hers, the intensity of looking into his eyes too much to bear. She kissed him, took his breath inside her as she took his seed. 

She loved Jaime, and tonight he had loved her. 

* * *

 

 

Winterfell was quiet when they arrived, Arryn men guarding the walls and a freshly repaired gate. A sick certainty settled over Brienne as she followed the Brotherhood into the great hall. 

The massive lord’s chair at the far end of the hall did not hold the black-clad, somber King in the North. There sat Lady Sansa Stark, with Lord Petyr Baelish by her side. 

Lady Sansa was clearly shocked to see Arya, calling the girl over to her. Arya parted from the group slowly, eyeing Baelish with distrust. And then Lady Sansa turned her gaze on Brienne and Jaime. “Take Lady Brienne and Lord Jaime to the dungeons,” she ordered. 

“Why?” The Hound growled, surprising Brienne. The man hadn’t seemed overly concerned about any of them except Arya. 

Sansa’s gaze fell on the hulking man, and Baelish answered instead, his eyes glittering with malice as he said, smiling, “For conspiring to murder the Blackfish.” 

Brienne heard Jaime fighting the guards and Lord Beric asking for his reward, but all the fight had gone out of her. Arryn men seized her arms, and the last thing she saw as she was dragged away was Lord Petyr Baelish’s smug smirk and his bejeweled hand resting on Sansa’s shoulder. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> My apologies for the lengthy delay on this last chapter, and yes, despite the cliffhanger, this is the last. In contrast to previous chapters, this one didn't work until it was from Brienne's POV. Consider it a season finale of sorts. Filming spoilers out of Spain made this one tough to complete, so we'll end it here and leave this as an alternate direction the show might have taken.


End file.
